


Qathar and The White Company

by SantaManana



Category: Choice of Games, The Golden Rose (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Art, Co-workers, Friendship, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Multi, The White Company....is just a bunch of idiots, but they try their best, dangerous ones, eye emoji, i think, one of these pairs are [redacted]
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:14:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24498517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SantaManana/pseuds/SantaManana
Summary: When Tarek founded the White Company, he wasn't expecting nobles or manners or polished upbringings.  After all, you don't bring rough mercenaries to dinner parties for their manners, just their steel and muscles for more.... drastic problems.But still, no one could expect the chaos that would unfold everyday in the White Company.(A collection of snippets and shorts I've written for the (mis)adventures of the White Company's mercenaries from The Golden Rose, a wonderful CoG wip by Anathema Fiction)
Kudos: 1





	1. To hug (Amelia & Qathar)

**Author's Note:**

> Qathar is my own MC for this beautiful wip, which I'm very excited to see completed. Seriously, Ana's writing is top-notch, but I'll let you find out for yourself. Alessa and Hadrian belong to her and all other mercenaries (MCs) belong to the good people over at the TGR Discord.
> 
> Play The Golden Rose here: https://forum.choiceofgames.com/t/the-golden-rose-wip-updated-6th-of-april-2020/43170
> 
> And say hi over at the TGR Discord here: https://discord.gg/JMpEBcw
> 
> If you'd like to learn more about our MCs, check out the guide that Crow (@feather-x-crown) created: https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1F6fhUAJxAYdupsXjT-yJ6Y3UiofCZx5k-sq-EZ7rNIY/edit#gid=0

One of the very few things in life that Qathar feared was Amelia’s hugs. Even after months of knowing her, he still couldn’t understand how _she_ , nicknamed the “Tiny Tornado” by the Company, could manage to sneak up on _him_ , who could dissolve out of sight quicker than shadows fleeing the glow of a torch. 

So when he saw her running towards him with a happy grin, he knew there was no escape, no intimidating her to stop; he had only the _smallest_ chance of persuading her to have _some_ mercy.

“Amelia—”

Too late. “QATHAAAAR,” she yelled as she rammed into him and entrapped him in her arms.

He grimaced as Amelia lifted him high up. Heavens above, he could feel his organs being squished out of place and the pressure threatening his spine as the mercenary’s arms tightened. 

(by s4fira)

Only one option now. “Amelia. Be putting me down now, or _I will tell Alessa what you did last night._ ”

Amelia blanched and instantly let go. Qathar landed neatly and rubbed his lower back to make sure his spine was still intact. “No! You promised! And she still hasn’t forgiven me for last week!” 

“And I will be keeping that promise as long as you will be keeping yours not to hug me like that.” Qathar sighed. “Your retrieval went well, I presume?”

She winked and patted the pouch slung around her hips. “Right where you said it would be! Now, come on! Let’s go decipher it together!” And she twirled around on her feet and began marching towards the headquarter’s library, not waiting to see if Qathar would follow. 

No need. She knew that he too was curious to decipher what these papers describing “Remedia Amoris” was. 

(Turns out it was just a really long how-to list and a love poem combined, something that Amelia grumbled over and Qathar took great interest in.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amelia belongs to @s-4-fira on Tumblr/Twitter/Discord and this chapter's art was drawn by her. I love Amelia. She's a small can of whoop-ass.
> 
> Qathar begrudgingly accepts her physical tokens of affections, but not when they start to break his bones.


	2. To keep (Odette & Qathar)

_I am going to die,_ Odette thought to herself as Qathar glared at her.

_I_ _am going to die and this is all Tarek’s fault, sending me to get Qathar for his reports. I am going to die and Qathar is going stab me in the back as soon as I turn around because I disturbed his reading and—_

“Why are you still standing there?” Qathar asked gruffly with a raised eyebrow. Odette let out a squeak in surprise. “You look like statue. No.” He squinted his eyes. "Even statues are more livelier than you." 

Odette’s mind ran rampant, thoughts jumbled and bundled together in a frenzied panic until it blended altogether into a white noise as Qathar narrowed his eyes and studied her even further. 

Mercifully, he broke off the eye contact first. He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “…silent like statue too” but Odette could only register Qathar pulling out a bookmark and place it delicately between the old parchment pages before he closed his book. He stood up from the library table and walked past her. 

“Be making sure that no one touches my things,” he called out without looking back. Once the door closed behind him, Odette nearly slumped to the floor in relief. A small part of her was miffed that Qathar might not trust her around his possessions— _I’m a scholar too! I know how to take care of books_ —but that part of her was smothered by a burning need to thank all of her lucky stars individually that she survived. 

Speaking of books, what was he studying? Tarek had been working the Company’s resident translators to the bone lately, obsessed with some sort of discovery. Odette had her own pile of scrolls waiting back at her room, but surely they could wait a moment for a quick glance at Qathar’s assignment? This was just an interest in her colleague’s work—mere academic curiosity. 

She examined the book on the table. A stitched green leather cover with yellow worn pages (a style of binding she had seen in mainly English texts). Faded script on the spine declared it to be “The Extraordinary Life, a…. by the Illustrious Traveler…” before trailing off (she guessed age had apparently robbed the book of its ability to name its illustrious traveler and author). A pressed flower peeked out from the pages—

Wait, what?

In disbelief, Odette slowly opened up the book to where Qathar had marked his place. Her jaw dropped. Adorning the slip of cardpaper he used was a very familiar flower, preserved to be as colorful and bright as the day she had given it to him with shaking hands. 

Odette felt her eyes begin to water and had to foresight close the book before any tears dropped onto the pages. A surprised smile graced her lips as she thought of Qathar and his grumpy look back then when she made her peace offering to him. 

Perhaps he wasn’t as angry as she thought.

* * *

_a few days earlier...._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As again, Qathar is my MC. Odette is the MC of Crow and this chapter's art was drawn by her (she's an amazing artist that's made a bunch of art for many CoG titles; check her out on feather-x-crown.tumblr.com)


	3. To share (Qathar and Arsinoe)

Arsinoë walks up the stairs to the tower, the highest point of the Company's headquarters, wondering what Qathar could have called her up for.

She finds him reclining on the balustrade, reading with one knee propped up and his back against a pillar. A tray with two cups, still steaming hot, sits by his feet. Qathar doesn’t look up as she approaches with quiet steps but instead wordlessly hands her a cup. 

She accepts it with both hands and breathes in the scent. Cinnamon, ginger, cloves, a medley of spices from the east...her eyes widen in delight. 

“Chai? My favorite,” she says as she goes to sit by him. “But...how did you get all these spices? These are nearly impossible to locate in the market.”

He finally looks up at her, a rare smile gracing his face. Again, she marvels at how handsome he looks with such a simple change from his usual sour look. It makes her feel warm inside, to know that she’s one of the few people who will ever receive such a gift. 

“It is as that expression says... ‘closed lips’?” 

“Ah, so your lips are sealed. And you won’t tell me how much this cost you?”

“No,  _ ya eini _ ,” is the simple reply she gets. He takes his own cup to sip and returns to his book. 

She continues studying him. Most people would accuse Qathar of being heartless but she knows the truth—or rather, she is  _ allowed _ to know the truth. And everyday, in her own small way, she lets him know how much she appreciates being privy to this great secret.

Such as the idea that pops into her head. She leans forward to get close enough.

“Qathar, if your lips are sealed, may I unseal them?”

He looks up with a confused expression, lips pressed together in a thin line. Before he can open his mouth to question her, Arsinoë swoops in and presses a kiss to his lips. 

She pulls back with a straight face and smiles inwardly at his open-mouthed expression and the blush on his cheeks. “Looks like it worked,” she deadpans and goes back to sipping her chai.

But she can’t help but peek at him over her cup. He’s pointedly gone back to reading, stoic look back on his face. But she notices how much more relaxed he looks, being here with her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arsinoë belongs to Sarah (OfThemyscira on Discord, @dathemyscira on Tumblr), owner and head mod of the TGR server. She is also a pretty fantastic artist and writer of her own, who's creating her own CoG title, Keeper of the Dead (keeperofthedead.tumblr.com for more info). 
> 
> This started as kind of a joke on the Discord, pairing our MCs together, since they're both pretty stoic people. But as crazy ideas have a tendency to do, it worked surprisingly well.
> 
> recipe for chai: https://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/homemade-chai-201226


	4. To sleep (Qathar & Arsinoe & Kaera)

(by Sarah)

The cart jostled violently as it ran over another pothole, causing Kaera to wake up for the fifth since they started the ride. She sighed through her nose and tried to settle down again but her pillow kept shifting.

“Qathar, _ya khara,_ ” she grumbled, “stop moving your thighs. I’m trying to sleep here.”

The man wearily rose his head from where it was leaning against Arsinoë’s shoulder and tried to glare at her through half-lidded eyes. “ _Telhas teeze,_ Kaera. We could be having a better cart to sleep in if only _someone_ was not concerned on getting the cheapest and smallest one.”

“Well, maybe we’d make this work if you didn’t insist on packing these extra supplies in the back with us. I can feel my legs turning to stone with how cramped they are.”

Qathar snorted. “Did your brain turn to stone as well? Otherwise, you would be knowing that these are valuable research materials we are needing, _ya_ _hemar._ ”

“We’ll see who’s the _hemar_ when I—”

“If you two do not quiet down and go back to sleep now,” Arsinoë murmured, “then I shall tell the cart driver to turn around and take us back.” She sought out Qathar’s hand beneath their shared blanket and softly squeezed it while turning her head to Kaera to placate her with a smile. “It’ll be some hours before we return to headquarters and both of you haven’t slept for two nights for this mission.”

Qathar, too tired to respond with other than a grunt, leaned back onto Arsinoë. Kaera _hmm’ed_ and lowered her head down again onto Qathar. 

Kaera chuckled. “You should rest too, Arsinoë. A few hours, then I can go back to my room and not have to deal with this one’s snoring.” 

Qathar softly laughed. “Being fine by me. I will not have to deal with your unbathed smell then.” He then twitched as Kaera pinched his calf in retaliation. 

Arsinoë rested her cheek in her palm and returned to watching the road as the rest of her team settled into silence. The little cart continued to rumble along as it carried the three of them home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We affectionately call this trio "the coolest kids of the White Company." Sarah drew them sleeping in a pile (oh my god they were sleeping in a pile), which sparked me writing this. Kaera the badass and the one fighting in the backseat with Qathar, belongs to Lone (@lonedeewolfe), also a damn good artist. Seriously, so much talent on the TGR Discord. Tears are shed and angels sing whenever she graces us with her work. 
> 
> ya hemar = you donkey/ass  
> ya khara = you shit  
> telhas teeze = kiss my ass (but in a semi-serious manner, usually among friends)
> 
> More Arabic insults found here: https://blogs.transparent.com/arabic/10-most-common-swear-words-and-expressions-in-arabic/


	5. To enjoy (Qathar, Odette, Amelia, Emilian)

“Apricot?” Odette calls out as she walks through the barracks, “where are you?” 

There is a delectable aroma that lingers in the air.  _ Bread _ , Odette thinks, _th_ _ ough it smells more savory than what I’m used to _ . The scent becomes stronger when she stops at her room, and when she peeks through the cracked-open door, Apricot is there, purring and rubbing her neck against a cloth-covered basket.

“Oh Apricot, what did you find?” she coos as she comes closer and scoops the kitten into her arms. Apricot purrs contentedly while rubbing against Odette’s neck. Odette giggles as she pulls aside the cloth, wondering if whoever came by left behind a clue. 

Inside, there are flat, circular loaves of bread, pale-yellow and dotted with golden-brown spots. Odette inhales deeply. The scent of still-warm bread brings back memories of her childhood in France — of breakfasts with  _ Grand-pѐre  _ and sunny-day walks in town while the bakers were pulling out trays after trays of bread, still steaming fresh from the ovens. 

Apricot  _ meows _ , jolting her out of her reverie. Odette then notices there’s a folded piece of note inside the basket as well. She unfolds it and reads it aloud to Apricot: “Bread for a braid. It goes well with dark teas _.” _

“No signature...” Odette murmurs. But as she thinks back to that “Braid Day” as she fondly remembers it, she begins to blush deeply as her mind settles on one candidate.  _ That’s so like him, to thank me when no one is around to hear. He’s so stoic and quiet, but he really is kind. _

She thinks back to his silky, long auburn hair, the quiet contentment on his face as she concentrated on his braid. Odette warms up even more, happiness bubbling up within her like a fountain.  _ Goodness,  _ she thinks,  _ look at me becoming so giddy over a gift like a lovesick maiden _ .

“Come on, Apricot,” she says while scritching the chin of the kitten. “Let’s think of a way to thank Reyner.” 

* * *

Meanwhile, at the dining hall, Qathar sits down with a cup of black tea and a few leftover loaves of pita bread. 

He closes his eyes, relishing in the quiet as he sips from his cup. But before he can tear off a piece of bread, he hears a scuffling noise from the window facing outside.

His eyes snap open, focusing instantly on Amelia grinning from the window and Emilian looking curiously into the empty room. 

“Hiya, Qathar!” Amelia greets him. “Wow, your snack really smells good! Is that the bread you brought to Reyner’s dinner party?”

Emilian sniffs at the air. “I’ve never seen bread like that before. Is it a recipe from the east?”

Amelia pipes up. “Did you make it yourself? Could we try some?”

Qathar stares at Amelia’s pleading pout and Emilian’s sad gaze, then looks down at his plate, then back up at them.  _ Curse Amelia’s appetite,  _ he decides, before grabbing a piece for himself and getting up from the table.

“Fine,” he grumbles as he balances his bread and cup of tea while pushing in his chair. “You two may be sharing the rest.”

  
“YES,” Amelia cheers. She then shoves aside Emilian as she races for the door. “I call first dibs!”

  
Emilian gapes in indignation. “W-wait up! Qathar said to share!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reyner is another MC of s4fira and Emilian belongs to Sam (aka Smaz aka Clown aka there's too many handles for me to handle so I'm just putting Sam).


	6. To joke (Bea & Qathar)

"Hey.. do you like Qathis? When I say... Qathat?"

Qathar scowls and shrugs off Bea's arm slung around his shoulders. He resettles against the fence they're leaning against, making sure to leave a foot of space between them.

"No," he grunts. "Who could ever be finding enjoyment in your puns?"

Bea sighs dramatically and lifts an accusing finger up to Qathar. "Are you going to stay such a grump while we're waiting for Hadrian to finish talking to that merchant? For a man who hardly has a moment to relax, I thought you'd take full advantage of this moment."

"Waiting, you call it. I call it 'still work.'"

"Ugh, call me the devil for wanting to cheer you up. See, this is why all the recruits say you're grouchy or stony-faced or that you have a steel rod stuck up your ass."

"That is being impossible. The rod."

"Oh?" A blond eyebrow quirks up. "How so?"

"Because," and Qathar smirks ever-so-slightly, "with Hadrian's cooking this morning, I would have shat it out by now."

Bea blinks once at him before lifting her hand up to her mouth and trying and failing to stifle her choking laughter. Qathar merely stays silent but his smirk grows a bit higher.

Bea calms down her aching gut and wipes away an imaginary tear. "Oh Qathar, you continue to surprise me. This is why I like working with you. I hope you'll do me the honor of playing cards with me tonight when Hadrian finally finishes up in there."

"Of course. I have reputation of being Company's 'stone-faced gambler,' after all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Bea, you trickster and bestower of puns. What was a typo of Qathar's name (Qathat) became a running joke in the server. I particularly like writing Bea's banter with Qathar because she's not off-put by his grouchiness and is always ready with a good quip. She's the MC of Nanda over at nandivina.tumblr.com, a good friend and also creator of this chapter's beautiful drawing. Check out more of her art over at nanda-art.tumblr.com


	7. To find (Kaera & Qathar)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a silly idea that got inspired by this post: https://iures.tumblr.com/post/619949165805453312/ordinaryredtail-kittymaverick-can-someone

It's certainly a sight to behold: to see their hawks together like this. Claws clasped tightly and entangled in the leather jesses looped around their legs. Khalil is resting on the top of the tree branch while Seti hangs below, occasionally screeching in annoyance. Khalil, on the other hand, barely makes a peep, but his fierce gaze remains on his master to express his displeasure.

"So...how shall we do this?" Kaera asks, without taking her eyes off of Seti. Qathar and Kaera stand side by side, wondering how on earth did this happen. The birds are stuck several meters above their heads. Good thing that Seti's piercing screeches could reach them through the forest that they were hunting in.

"One would be having to climb up...and I am thinking, untie the jesses keeping their feet together. The birds will be knowing to unclasp then," Qathar suggests.

A pause. Then in perfect synchronization, Qathar and Kaera turn to each other.

"Rock, paper, knife!"

" _Damn,_ " mutters Kaera, seeing her "knife" against Qathar's "rock." "Guess I'm going up then."

Qathar nods solemnly and takes a step back while Kaera readies to herself to climb the tree. "Be making sure to not to fall," he calls out unhelpfully. "I heard from Arsinoë that you are being afraid of heights?"

" _Kol khara, Qathar._ You know that's not true," retorts Kaera, pulling herself up to the first branch. "And once I free Seti, I'll have her shit on your bags. _Again._ "

"So you _are_ admitting you set her on me!"

"Trust me," Kaera grunts, concentrating on finding her next handholds. "It's not that hard to convince Seti to do so."

(by Lone)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kol khara = literally "eat shit" but more to tell someone to shut up if they're being annoying
> 
> BACK AT IT AGAIN with the cool kids who like to roast each other in Arabic. This chapter's art was created by the incredibly talented artist Lone (check out more of her TGR art on lonedeewolfe.tumblr.com). I'm really running out of adjectives to express my admiration for all the crazily talented people I've met because of this one game.
> 
> Seti is a steppe eagle and Khalil is a saker falcon, gifted to Qathar by Odette from the TGR friendship day event.


	8. To help (Qathar, Bea, & Beka)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be 500 words or less.  
> But as always, I clowned myself >:/
> 
> Again, Bea belongs to @nandivina and the SassMaster 5000 Beka belongs to AnathemaFiction.

It started, as most troubles do with Bea, with a game. 

She smiled at her opponent and slid her bishop across the chessboard. “Five moves to checkmate,” she murmured.

Her opponent grunted and moved a pawn up to intercept her piece’s path. 

“And four more.” She moved a rook on the other side to begin her pincer assault on his army of wooden soldiers. Her opponent’s face remained stubbornly blank but a small huff of breath betrayed his unease at the momentum of the game. Bea hid a smile as he pondered over his next move; making Qathar lose his cool was rare but all the more satisfying when it happened. 

One could say that finding ways to irritate him was becoming a pastime of hers. 

All of a sudden, a cacophony of shouts and crashes erupted in the air, disturbing the steady hum of the marketplace that Bea and Qathar had tuned out. Instantly alert, the two of them scanned their surroundings for danger as their hands inched towards their weapons. Bea spied the source of the commotion, sprinting and swerving around bewildered shoppers, upset sellers, and packed goods in crates. Three men following behind soon appeared, yelling for someone to catch the thief.

The thief was a familiar girl, whose ragged clothes and skin were coated with the grime of the city. Tell-tale marks of a life lived on the streets. She was clutching something to her chest as she ran for her life, and as she passed by, Bea saw the thief’s bright green eyes filled with the panic of a plan gone horribly wrong.

“Qathar,” Bea said as she stood up, “sorry, but think I’ll have to take a raincheck on our game.”

Qathar’s eyebrows furrowed. “What is a—”

But Bea didn’t bother to hear the rest as she took off running after the three men and Beka, leaving Qathar to shout fruitlessly after her.

* * *

The trio of men groaned in pain, collapsed onto the muddy ground of the alley that Bea (and Qathar following her) had chased them into. One was on his hands and knees, retching and wheezing as his bruised sides ached tremendously. Another one laid on his side, clutching his broken nose with thick fingers that tried to stem the flow of blood. Qathar stood by, watching Bea exaggeratedly brushing her hands off. 

She dropped to a crouch in front of the last of them, who had dragged himself to sit upright, his back propped up against the alley wall. She tilted his sneering face up with the point of her dagger. 

“And what did we learn today?” she asked.

“Fuck you, bitch,” he growled. In shaky defiance, he spat blood at her. The spittle fell short of her face, but still landed on the collar of her shirt. 

“Wrong answer,” said Qathar as he walked up to Bea’s side and stomped down onto the offender’s hand. The man howled and jerked as his fingers were crushed beneath the heel of a boot. Bea pursed her mouth in displeasure and motioned for Qathar to move his foot away. 

She sighed. Not that she didn’t appreciate her surly friend’s support, but it was, as always, as straightforward and brutal as he was. Bea was more partial to the more subtle side of coercion, skills that relied on subterfuge and psychological manipulations. Tricks that played on a person’s fears, that rattled their confidence and sent a chill in their bones as they wondered if it was death who was staring back at them, not Bea. 

Tricks such as this: she pressed her blade further into the man’s neck, enough that a bright bead of red welled up and collected on the tip of the weapon. The man winced and backpedaled with a plea for Bea to remove her weapon away. 

“Let’s try this again, not-so-nicely this time. If I ever see you chasing down this girl again,” she inclined her head over to Beka, who glared fiercely at her pursuers, “you won’t be eating dirt next time. You’ll be tasting steel instead.” She smirked with the cold satisfaction of a cat with a paw clamped over a terrified mouse. Behind her, Qathar rolled his eyes as he crossed his arms and leaned back against the alley’s brick wall, waiting for her to finish. 

“Get out of here,” Bea ordered. She stood up and stepped out of their way. The three men hurried to pick themselves up and flee down the alley. Bea smirked at their retreating backs and turned back to Beka.  
  


“You alright?”

“...Yeah. Thanks.”

  
“Funny pattern, isn’t this? Doesn’t it remind you of how we first met?”

Beka shrugged as casually as she could. “I guess.” But in a louder voice: “You don’t hafta keep following after me. I can handle myself.” 

Bea chuckled. “You’re welcome, Beka.”

“This is the Beka? Who put the carrot up your nose?” Qathar asked Bea. Upon her nod, he looked again at the street urchin with renewed interest. After all, it wasn’t everyday you could find someone who could shut up Bea in one instant.

Bea laughed. “And from a humble vegetable, a beautiful partnership was formed.” She motioned for Qathar to come forward. “Ah, let me introduce you to my colleague and friend.”

“Oh, Dog Man.”

“....Excuse me?”

“Yeah, Dog Man.” Beka nodded. “Seen him around sometimes, feedin’ some of the strays by the fountain.” She sniffed the air and squinted at him. “Huh. For someone who hangs around ‘em a lot, you sure don’t smell like ‘em.”

Qathar stared in disbelief. “My name is—”

“Dog Man,” Bea said. Her lips thinned as she tried to suppress a giggle.

Qathar scoffed. “No.” He began again. “My name is—”

“Dog Man,” chorused Bea and Beka. 

His eye twitched as he fixed them both with a dark glare. “...Qathar,” he growled out. 

“Y’know, instead of being a ‘grumpy cat,’ you could be...” Bea’s lips twitched. “‘Dog Man’ instead.” 

Qathar looked up to the sky, silently weighing the pros and cons of murdering Bea and dumping the body in a dark corner of the alley they were in. “I will leave,” he warned.

“Oh, don’t be mad! If you leave, you won’t even get to see what we helped Beka protect!” At the mention of her name, Beka glanced off to the side, suddenly looking like she’d rather make another run for it and disappear back into the crowded streets. She fidgeted and drew her arms around herself tighter, trying to hide something to her chest. Bea gave her a disapproving glare and sternly said, “I think you owe us this much at least.” Her eyes softened. “I just want to know just what was so important that you had to run like that.” 

After another moment of stubborn silence, Beka sighed and slowly held the mystery object out for inspection.

It was the sorriest pair of footwear that they had ever seen. It was a pair of mangled and dirt-caked leather boots that was obviously meant for a person more than twice the size of Beka and had obviously passed its lifetime. What was left of the laces looked like limp strands of greasy hair, and a pair of holes peered at them like eyes from the toe of each boot. The sole of one shoe was peeling away almost entirely, hanging out and flopping around with each movement like Billy the horse’s tongue on a hot summer day. 

Qathar furrowed his eyebrows in disbelief. “....Those are boots? Is this being a joke?”

Beka stomped her foot and scowled. “You growin’ old and deaf too? Yeah, they’re boots, and I even got them fair an’ square!” She scowled again at Qathar’s half-lidded, unimpressed gaze. “Really!”

“Sorry about my friend. You’ll have to forgive his sourpuss attitude. It’s been with him since he tragically found out that he’s not very good at telling jokes.” Bea came between them, cutting the tension with a winning smile and a hearty clap on Qathar’s shoulder. Only his years of endurance training kept him from wincing at the strength in it, strength that warned: _you’re terrible at this and you better let me handle this_. 

“However—not that I don’t believe you,” she interjected quickly, “but what does ‘fair and square’ have to do with three men on your tail?” Bea asked.

At the mention of her pursuers, Beka’s frown turned even worse and her voice dropped low. “Don’t know even why he wanted them back, he was tossin’ them out in the first place. Figured why let it go to waste when _I_ could use them. So I took ‘em. ‘S not stealin’ if no one wants it no more.” She shuffled her feet, her soles coal-black and roughed up on the unforgiving streets of Tarragona. “Then he saw me and started yellin’ and callin’ for his buddies to come chase me.” 

“So yeah,” Beka finished, “they’re not much but at least they’re _mine_.” She jerked her head up to stare at them with fire blazing in her green eyes, daring them to make another comment on the shoes she had taken for herself.

Bea’s heart sank as she studied this child before her and the tension written in her too-thin limbs. The way Beka was so puffed up and prickly, it reminded her of a cornered pup pretending to be a wolf, growing and snapping as it stood over a scrap of meat. 

Meanwhile, Qathar observed the two of them: Beka’s defiant frown pretending to be satisfied with what she held in her hands and Bea’s eyes conflicted over extending a hand in charity or withholding it to save Beka’s pride. 

(The possessiveness in the girl’s narrowed eyes... It...it reminded him of a boy from a long time ago, clutching his meager slice of bread in one hand and a knife in the other as the other boys encroached on him, desperate to bolster their own small portions.

He suspected that _They_ had doled out the rations like this on purpose, to encourage competition and ruthlessness among the ranks, to make the strong weed out the weak and toughen up those who fought back. Make the recruits toss out their own trash, so to speak.

The memory disgusted him—enough to make a split-second decision.) 

Without warning, Qathar lifted his foot up and scraped off every bit of mud, garbage, and shit stuck on the bottom of his boot onto the top of Bea’s own shoes. 

She started to screech. “What the hell?! _Qathar!_ ” But he ignored her protests and continued on with the nonchalance of someone idly inspecting their fingernails. She shoved him off and attempted to hop back while leveling her dagger towards him at the same time. Beka couldn’t help but crack a smirk at the sight of the flustered mercenary, her usual confidence gone and replaced with shock, fury, and abhorrence. 

Qathar then turned to Beka. “Tragedy,” he deadpanned, “it seems the boots of my companion have suffered much damage in the chasing of you. She must be getting new footwear at once.”

“You slimy, son of a—!”

“So, Beka,” he raised his voice to drown out Bea’s complaints, “if you are really knowing this city well, then you can be finding us a leatherworker or a...” He paused and tilted his head. “What is being the word for a maker of shoes in this place?”

“How about we find a chamberpot and shove _you_ into it?” Bea muttered darkly as she tried in vain to shake the muck off her shoes. 

“You mean...a cobbler?” Beka asked. 

Qathar nodded. “Yes. That. We should be making the haste to find one. So that Bea is not doing the cursing and crying any longer.” (He ignored the scathing scowl tossed at him.) “And as the payment for leading us there... mayhaps this...cobbler can be making some shoes out of the... leathers you bring him.” He gave a pointed look to the ragged boots still in the clutches in Beka’s scrawny arms before his eyes flicked back up to her face. “Is this being agreeable to you?”

“Well, if we’re going to look for the best cobbler in town, you know...you might as well get something brand-new, rather than having to reuse someone’s rubbish,” Bea added, catching onto Qathar’s intent. She flashed her best smile at Beka, hoping to ease away the hesitation she saw in the girl’s face.

“Really, richie? Ya gonna’ do that for me?” 

Something bright began to unfurl in those young eyes; perhaps it was greed or something like gratitude delighting in the opportunity that fell in front of the thief. It was hesitant at first, but became stronger with each second that Beka found herself weighing, and then agreeing to the sincerity in Bea’s words. 

Bea winked. “Upon my name and my honor as a mercenary, I swear thus,” she intoned dramatically. For good measure, she placed her hand over her heart and theatrically bowed.

Beka grinned widely, enough to show the gap in her teeth. “Alright, that’s a fair deal.” She jabbed her thumb at her chest. “Leave it ta me! You’ve got the best guide to show you around!” 

She started skipping backwards out of the alley, a jaunty bounce in her steps matching the energy in her smile. “So come on! Let’s get goin’ already!” Bea laughed too and loped an arm around Qathar’s, dragging him forward even as he tried to fight her off.

She leaned in close. “And since you were so kind as to suggest this idea, may you be so kind as to pay for _both_ our new boots?” she whispered into his ears. The smile on her face was light but the dangerous look in her eyes promised retribution if he didn’t comply. 

“Pah,” he grunted and strode on. 

“That’s not a ‘no’, is it?” Bea sang.

“Pah.”


	9. To destroy (Thera & Qathar)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thera is "spiteful, resourceful, short-tempered, aggressive, cynical" - her extremely talented creator and artist @nieryen
> 
> And a minor reappearance of Kaera, #1 Qathar sasser

Steel sings. Not many people know this, but then again, not many people have made it their life’s work to wield a weapon. Ask yourself this: do you know the sound of a dagger as it whistles through the air? Have you heard the harsh clatter of metal as a spear thrusts against a shield?

Thera knows this song very well. She hears her sword croon as it scrapes against her scabbard when she draws it out. She hears it whenever her sword whips through the air and slices through leather armor. The song of her steel is as clear and pure as a ringing church bell, rising high above the battlefield and the screams of desperate men. 

Her hand, it’s burning. Her blood, it’s boiling. Her head is pounding, and her vision tunnels, red encroaching on the edges of her sight as she focuses on the man she’s currently locked swords with. A small part of her revels in the reflection of her blood-splattered face in his eyes, his pupils blown out wide by adrenaline to resemble polished obsidian. Thera sneers as she harshly shoves the man back and slashes upward at his exposed front when he stumbles. He goes down with a groan but already she’s turning to find her next victim, eyes flick-flick- _ flickering  _ around and her ears attuned to the cacophony of the battlefield.

There! A soldier with their back to her, their hands tightly wrapped the handle of their longsword, frozen like a deer as a wolf stalks forward from the shadows. The soldier’s shivering, too preoccupied with watching all the fighting around them to notice her approach. Their fatal mistake.

**_“ Kill_ ** **,”** her sword commands. 

Thera grins, the smile stretching a little  _ too _ wide as she runs forward and—

An arrow, out of nowhere, punctures the soldier’s neck in one clean hit, and they drop to the ground while gurgling on their blood. Thera whips her head up, trying to pinpoint whoever had the  _ gall _ to steal her kill from her. She narrows her eyes, scanning through the crowded chaos of bodies and weapons all hacking and bashing into one another. In the corner of her eye, there’s a cloak of dark forest green, whirling around and disappearing before she can catch a look at the owner’s face.

Thera scowls and moves on quickly. There is  **_no time_ ** to stand still on the battlefield, she has to  **_survive_ ** , she has to  **_kill_ ** , she has to—.

Has to—

Thera roughly shakes her head, sweat flying from her brow, her braid almost slapping her in the face. The headache is getting worse. 

“ _ Move _ ,” she snaps to herself and pushes forward. 

She spies another target. This time, it’s a woman with a battleaxe, swinging it around in a vicious circle, shearing down her attackers as easily as stalks of wheat falling to a scythe. Thera’s hand burns even more; it’s like a fire is eating away at her limb, a maddening itch that’s pulsing and spreading up through her arm. Numbly, Thera flexes her gloved hand and readjusts her grip on her sword as the axewoman notices her. A sneer curls her lips as the enemy starts forward and she readies herself to— 

In an instant, an arrow flies forth, gouging the woman’s right eye. The woman screams, then jerks back as a second arrow pierces the middle of her chest, driving her down to the ground with the force of its trajectory. Thera snarls as she spins around, furious at being denied her kill  _ yet again _ —

In the distance, she meets the eyes of Qathar. There is no softness in his gaze—only the hardened look of disgust drilling into her, like the judgemental gaze of some great stone guardian at a temple’s entrance, bearing down upon trespassers. To anyone more feeble, they might have wilted under Qathar’s frigid look, shivering and shrinking into themselves to evade the chill. However, Thera glares right back, in equal parts defiance and spite. Fury colors her vision scarlet as she watches him scowl once more. They both turn away to continue the fight.

It doesn’t stop there. Three, four, five more times does she find a new target, someone whose blood can quench the thirst of her sword, whose death cries can surely drown out the whispers of her weapons. And five more times does Qathar foil her attempts, always shooting her targets down before she can deliver the killing blow. Every failure, every denied kill rankles her further, digging into her skin, jabbing at her mind. When the horn blares through the field they’re in, when the head of the enemy commander is lifted up to signal the end of the skirmish, Thera feels as if she’s going mad. The cheers of her fellow mercenaries feels like someone’s driving a wedge in between her eyes, making the pounding in her head ten times worse. Her hand itches  _ so much _ , as if it’s been thrust into the heart of an inferno and the skin is scorched and blistering open. 

When the rest of the White Company mercenaries line up at the table in the middle of camp to receive their rewards, Thera does not join them. Instead, she stalks off to find Qathar, teeth grinding as she remembers his flint-dark eyes judging her from the battlefield, his arrows mowing down  _ her _ enemies one by one. At the edge of the camp, she finds him sitting on a stool, carefully cleaning the blood from his arrowheads. 

“Qathar,” her voice is raised as she slips into Arabic, “ _ ya ibn el sharmouta!” _

He looks up with a steady, expectant gaze, his face void of emotion but for a frown. “Thera.”

She stops short before him, looming over with her hands on her hips, animosity rolling off her body in waves. Yet, Qathar remains seated, though it doesn’t escape her notice that he carefully tightens his grip on the arrow he’s tending to. 

Thera seethes. [“What the hell was that out there? You stealing my kills, adding  _ my coin _ to your pay?”] 

Qathar’s eyebrows slowly draw down into a furrow as he responds in their shared tongue. [“The battle is over. And yet the first thing you do is track me down for some  _ crime _ I have committed. Is this all you think of now? Every head that you cannot take is another coin missing from your purse?”]

[“Spare me your sudden moralizing. In a battlefield ruled by life or death, I choose to take life and I choose to give death. That is our purpose, as  _ mercenaries _ . But this also doesn’t change the fact that you were  _ sabotaging _ me.”] 

Qathar scoffs. [“Sabotage? I _stopped_ you from indulging in your madness.”]

Disbelief wars with indignation inside Thera’s mind. [“So you thought stealing my work from me would  _ help? _ ”]

[“I had to. With every kill you made, I saw you being ruled more and more by your bloodlust. That wasn’t a battle—that was a ruthless slaughter and you loved every moment of it. That smile on your face as you kept cutting those people down ー that belonged on a rabid animal, not the Thera I know.”]

He casts a pointed look at her gloved hand, which Thera instinctively tries to move out of sight. [It’s acting up again, hasn’t it? Why haven’t you told us? You haven’t been sleeping, you skip meals, you’re among the first to rush into battle and snap at anyone who tries to talk to you. You’ve grown so much more vicious since ー”] 

The heat of her outrage contrasts with her cold smile, her lips stretching wide and thin. [“Hah! I’m not myself? Since when have you become an expert on me and decided what’s best? While we speak of who’s acting like themselves, let’s take a look at  _ you _ . You want to deny that you weren’t on the same battlefield? That you weren’t out there with me  _ also _ exterminating our enemies?”] 

_ How _ **_dare_ ** _ he,  _ she thinks. Her head is throbbing again, worsening with every intrusive thought. She blinks and she sees a vision of her trembling hand reaching out and wrapping itself around Qathar’s throat, adding more and more pressure in just the right place until she can hear a  _ *snap*.  _ She blinks again and now she imagines him on the ground, his broken nose resembling a smashed tomato, his blood coloring her fist. It’s a bit startling to find how satisfying the image feels to her.

She laughs bitterly, her voice dropping low and dripping with derision. [“If anything, you were just like the  _ Fang of the Jackal _ ー”] 

Qathar leaps up to his feet, snarling in her face, [“Do not use that title. That man isー”] 

Suddenly, a hand appears on Thera’s shoulder and another grasps at the back of Qathar’s cloak as Kaera firmly pulls them apart. [“Alright, that’s enough,”] she says casually in Arabic, as if scolding two misbehaving children, [“Can we save this for another occasion? I’d rather not have to clean extra blood off myself from you two murdering each other.]

[“Let me go. I need to teach this arrogant bastard a lesson,”] growls Thera.

[“Mmm, as much as I would like to leave Qathar in the deepest pit I can find from time to time, today’s not the day to dig his graveーor yours. I’m too tired, you see.”] Kaera makes a show of heaving a sigh, though her grip remains firm on both of them and a warning glimmers in her half-lidded eyes. [“In fact, I think we’re all exhausted from today’s battle. Why don’t we retire early to our tents?  _ Separately?” _ ]

A strained silence descends upon the three of them as Kaera carefully watches Qathar and Thera, their bodies remaining tense and angled toward each other. After a moment, Qathar relaxes minutely and Kaera releases her hold on his cloak. He steps back until there is a good two meters between him and the other women, his stormy gaze remaining on Thera’s face. Thera then violently shrugs off Kaera’s hand and spits at Qathar’s feet. 

[“Overstep like that again, and my sword will find your neck,”] she warns before wheeling away. 

The last thing she hears as she strides off is Kaera sarcastically commenting to Qathar, [“Congratulations, you’ve got quite the talent for pissing off people with your helpー”] before she tunes out the rest. There is work to be done: coin to be counted and steel to be sharpened for the next assault they’re assigned to.

The burning sensation in her hand is still there. The hunger for blood continues to gnaw at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ya ibn el sharmouta = you son of a bitch
> 
> (Bonus abridged version of this piece)  
> Qathar: I think you are going insane and on a path of no return  
> Thera: I think you need to stfu and let me do my job  
> Qathar:  
> Thera:  
> [Kill Bill sirens in the background]


End file.
